Hear Me Howl
by Freelance Fanfictioner
Summary: When Sansa finds out about Tyrion's mistress, it bothers her more than she thought it would. But what does this mean regarding the future of their forced marriage? Among dangerous plots and heartbreaking tragedies, Sansa discovers something to give her hope. SoS AU.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: This story isn't compatible with "Make Me a Lion" and "Blood of the Lion"; it is a different-premise AU taking place during SoS in King's Landing. _

Sansa toyed absent-mindedly with the shell remnants of her soft-boiled egg. She lingered over her solitary breakfast far longer than usual, and there was a frown on her face which she tried in vain to banish. She didn't even know why the rumour should surprise her so much, even if it _was_ true... which, she had to admit, it probably was.

Highborn lords, after all, often kept concubines - even when, unlike her, their wives performed their marital duty. Her own noble father... Sansa blushed and shook her head, extremely vexed. No, it was not like that. Her father did not _keep_ a mistress - if he lapsed, he did so once, not more, and had been sorely ashamed of it all his life. Tyrion, on the other hand... well, she could hardly say she hadn't been warned. On the wretched night of their wedding, he told her quite explicitly what he means to do. _That is why the gods made whores for imps like me._

She said nothing against this, so it could be concluded they have reached an unspoken agreement: he wouldn't touch her and she wouldn't pry into whatever affairs he might have with other women. She put it very plainly that she will never come to him willingly, and he accepted it, and he was entirely within his right to... yes, but... but... bringing this girl _here_, as his own wife's maid - there was something shameless and vulgar about it, or so Sansa's delicate spirit felt._ He might fondle her each time she passes by him in the corridors. They might even... even... _do the deed_ here, on our bed, when I am absent. _Sansa blushed crimson. She still knew very little about what _the deed_ actually consists of.

She had noticed before that something was odd about Shae's behavior. The girl was diligent enough and quick about her work, but the looks she sometimes gave Sansa - bold, insolent looks - could be better explained now. Her maid looked at her as if she were her equal - and sometimes there was this _longing_ in her stare, especially when she helped Sansa choose jewels for a festive occasion or aided the seamstress in taking measurements for a new gown. It was almost as if she was imagining herself in Sansa's place and wishing to be her. _If so, Shae is stupid, even though she is older. _

It was obvious to Sansa that all Shae wanted from Tyrion was his gold. She was lowborn; he was a Lannister. _Of course _it had to be so, because the Imp couldn't possibly hold other attractions for a woman... could he? Sansa wondered if it made any difference to him. Probably not, she decided. Men were simply made that way, she mused in a worldly but wholly theoretical line of thought. They needed women, and if they couldn't obtain willing ones, they bought them - provided they had the money.

She didn't feel hurt by the entire situation, exactly, but she was annoyed. _Did he think I would never find out? _she thought. _Did he think I am a stupid little girl? _Perhaps they mock me behind my back, another angry thought struck her. And then another: perhaps this affair isn't new. Perhaps this girl has been Tyrion's mistress for a while now, even before his marriage. _It seems likely, as it appears the entire Red Keep knew of the business before me. _

She wondered at first whether she would dare to confront her husband about this matter, but she knew herself too well to pretend the answer wasn't obvious. Of course she wasn't going to say anything, even if the opportunity occurred - and in fact, she saw very little of Tyrion these days. Joffrey's wedding was looming closer and closer, matters of state were pressing, and Tyrion was usually dressed and gone before she was even up for breakfast. Usually they supped together, just the two of them, in strained silence; but soon afterwards, Tyrion went away for more work, or sat in his solar, hunched over books or scribbling on long rolls of parchment in his cramped but elegant writing. Sansa's custom was to go to bed early, sticking carefully to her side of it. Tyrion went to sleep late, and sometimes not at all. Up until now, when his blankets remained unruffled Sansa assumed sleep caught him at work and he stretched out on the cushioned seat in the solar; but now different ideas appeared in her mind, fascinating and repulsive at once.

That night was one of the rare occasions when both Tyrion and Sansa went straight to bed after supper. Sansa changed into her long, demure soft wool sleeping shift in the adjacent chamber, and Tyrion was pointedly looking away when she climbed under the blankets. Sansa pursed her lips to keep an unspoken and inappropriate question from slipping out, and turned her back on her husband, determined to have a long and dreamless sleep until morning.

It was not to be. In the middle of the night, she was woken quite suddenly by a faint rustling, as if someone was dressing quickly and quietly in the dark - but not quickly or quietly enough. Sansa looked up, and in the flickering light of a single candle, she saw that Tyrion was up and awake.

"Where are you going, my lord?" she asked innocently. "It is the dead of night."

To Tyrion's honor it can be said he looked abashed. "I couldn't sleep, and thought I would go to the solar and write some letters. The night is too long to while away in bed, awake."

Sansa looked at him and knew he was lying. He was fully dressed and even had his cloak draped over his shoulders, as if he was about to go out into the dark chill. _He was going to go to her, _she realized, and felt more vexed than she thought she was supposed to. Perhaps she felt jealous because he had someone to go to at night, while she was all alone in this city.

"I see," she said.

"Did I wake you?" asked her husband.

"No," Sansa said. "I... I had a dream, my lord. A troubling one." _That _wasn't a lie, strictly speaking; she did have a dream, a troubling one indeed, only it was on one of the nights when Tyrion was absent.

"What kind of dream was that?" asked Tyrion.

"I saw my mother," said Sansa. "It was as though I was standing outside the gates of a great castle on the bank of a river... it was supposed to be Riverrun, I think, although it didn't look quite like Riverrun - and my mother was riding past me on a horse. The hood of her cloak fell down, and I recognized her and called after her, and she looked back and saw me and her face - it... lit up with joy. And then..." she frowned, "then she tried to tell me something, but I couldn't make out the words. And then she rode away."

"Oh," said Tyrion, sitting back down on the bed, still fully dressed. "But what is so bad about this dream?"

Sansa knitted her brows together. "I am not sure how to explain this," she said, "nothing in particular, but when she rode away, I _knew_ I was never going to see her again... and then I woke." A sudden impulse prompted her to speak further, "I do not wish to remain alone now," she said, "I would rather that you stay."

She lifted her eyes to him, scrutinizing his face. She knew he was too courteous to refuse such a request, but was there a flicker of dismay? For some reason, it made her feel wicked. Tyrion pulled off his cloak and boots and gloves and climbed back into bed. "I want you to know it is not my intention to keep you separated from your family forever, Sansa," he said. "If it depended on me in any way at all - "

"I know," she nodded.

"Sometimes, I dream of my mother as well," confessed Tyrion.

"Indeed?" Sansa couldn't help but feel curious. The character of Joanna Lannister held a fascination to her; she was supposed to be a famous beauty, and a good and wise woman. "You... you could not possibly remember her, could you, my lord?"

"No. She died when I was born, and my father took off all her portraits. People say he did that out of grief, because he couldn't bear to look upon her image, but as a boy I grudged him that. I wanted to know what my mother looked like. In my dreams, I could see her clearly, but the very instant I woke her features would become hazy in my mind. Cersei is said to look like her, but I could never imagine Cersei as my mother," he added. For a moment, he was deep in thought. "If she had lived, things might have been different," and the look on his face was that of yearning - the yearning of a boy who knows his mother would have loved him, small and scarred and stunted as he was.

After a few moments of silence, he stifled a yawn. "I think I will be able to go back to sleep now. Try and do the same, Sansa. Dawn is only a couple of hours away, and it won't do to be weary all the next day."

Sansa closed her eyes. It suddenly occurred to her that this was the first actual conversation they had since the beginning of their marriage. And somehow, it didn't seem Tyrion grudged her the loss of his nightly detour, either.


	2. Chapter 2

The seamstress came to see Sansa that afternoon, to bring the new gown to try on. It was blue satin that brought out all the color in her eyes, fitting snugly at the waist, with a swirl of wide rustling skirts beneath.

"I hope it pleases m'lady," said the seamstress, "now, what do you say to an addition of Myrish lace at the bosom and cuffs?"

Sansa surprised her maid by turning to her. "Shae, what do you think?"

The girl grinned wickedly. "Me, m'lady? I think lace is very fine, but if I had a bosom such as yours, I would never hide it."

Sansa looked at the morror. As it was, the dress was far too low cut, compared to what she normally wore - but so what? She was no longer a child, but a woman wed. She could permit herself to look... desirable. A hot flush crept up her neck when she uttered the word in her mind.

"No lace," she concluded.

"As you wish, my lady," the seamstress said pleasantly. Sansa noticed the furtive, jealous look Shae stole at her new gown. She still tried to rationalize against disliking the girl who, after all, relieved her of the unwelcome task of bedding the Imp - a threatening prospect. But there was nothing to it; Shae's presence was irritating. She could ask her husband to dismiss her, she supposed. _I wouldn't mind what he does, as long as it isn't going on right under my nose, _she thought. However, she couldn't come up with a good enough excuse to send Shae away.

When she supped with her husband that night, Sansa could not help but notice his appreciative stare.

"That is a lovely dress," he said.

"My lord is kind," she replied, eyes downcast. But that was the liveliest thing Tyrion had said throughout the evening. He frowned and concentrated on cutting his mutton into very small, even pieces, without actually eating much.

"Is something troubling you, my lord?" Sansa ventured in the end.

"Tyrion," he corrected patiently.

"Tyrion," she nodded, and waited.

"It is my father," he confessed, "he is acting in a very... elusive way lately. He is up to something, I cannot find out what - but knowing my sire, it cannot be anything good."

For some reason, a chill went through Sansa. "Your lord father has secrets he won't confide in his own children?"

"Always. Especially me. Tywin Lannister is not a man to put all his eggs in one basket."

_Robb_, Sansa thought. _I am almost certain this has something to do with his plans against Robb's army. _Perhaps it was on her account that Tywin Lannister was being so secretive with the Imp. Perhaps there is a dark plot the lion lord does not wish to reveal... until it is too late to thwart it.

... Unfortunately for Sansa, the secret did not remain hidden much longer. One horrible day, Tyrion stepped into their chambers and dismissed the maids very brusquely, and Sansa took one look at his face and blanched. He looked like a man who would have given anything in the world to remain silent, yet he had to speak... and speak he did. He told her of the horror that would soon become renowned by the name of the Red Wedding. He was very grave and spoke very slowly, and although Sansa wanted to scream and shut her ears and throw herself on the floor, it was as though she was made of wood or stone. She couldn't move; she couldn't speak. She couldn't even cry.

"Sansa?" Tyrion's voice drifted at her as if through fog. "Have you heard me?" the extent of shared pain and gentle concern in his voice could have made anyone weep, but Sansa was numb. Her very tongue felt wooden.

"Yes," she managed. Tyrion tiptoed outside the room and shut the door behind him, but she didn't hear his receding footsteps. He remained outside, then, listening intently - but at that moment, she couldn't care less. Finally a dam broke and she collapsed in hysterical sobs.

Some minutes later, unable to bear it, Tyrion opened the door again and entered the chamber to see Sansa curled on the floor against one of the bedposts. Her eyes, when she lifted them up to him, were hollow, her cheeks glazed with tears. He offered her his hand to help her up, but she didn't take it. Instead, he lowered himself down and sat on the floor by her side, looking straight in her eyes. His mouth was grim and set.

"It was the filthiest, ugliest bit of foul treachery I have ever dreamed of," he said, "I knew nothing. My father must have realized I would do my best to disrupt his plans. I had nothing to do with it, Sansa, I swear it upon my life and honor."

And although his distress could not be noticed by Sansa in her state of shock and grief, the pained earnestness in his voice convinced her, at least, that he isn't lying.

"I... believe you," Sansa said in a barely audible voice.

"This vile deed will bring the curse of gods upon us all," Tyrion said quietly.

_Let it be, _thought Sansa. _No curse could be worse than this. _

... At night, she dreamed of her mother again.

She was walking across a moonlit snowy field in winter, the silvery light of the half-moon shining bright and sharp upon the soft white blanket of snow. A figure walked a little ahead of her, and Sansa thought vaguely that this must be a woman, and how badly she wants her to turn around, so that she can look upon her face. When the woman did turn, Sansa recognized her mother, the lady Catelyn - and even in the dream, she could not be rid of the horrible knowledge that her mother was dead, that she cannot really be seeing her... but somehow it seemed as though perhaps something can still be done - and she ran, her arms outstretched, calling "Mother! Mother!"

Sansa stopped, breathless, right in front of her mother, and Catelyn looked at her daughter lovingly and smiled a sad and tender smile. Then she reached out and laid a gentle hand right over Sansa's heart.

"Next to you," she whispered, and Sansa wanted to ask what she meant, but then she turned to smoke and vanished and Sansa was left alone in the snowy field, and the moon and stars have suddenly become evil eyes watching her every move, and all was covered in blood - hot and crimson torrents of blood upon the soft white snow... and Sansa screamed.

She woke screaming, stifled her voice, but couldn't stop the uncontrollable sobs that rocked her body back and forth. Tyrion sat by her side in bed, bolt upright and wide awake.

"Sansa," he said, "please calm down - you had a dream, a nightmare, but it is over." Yet even as he spoke, both of them knew it wasn't so. _It isn't over. It will never be over. The true nightmare begins now that I am awake. _Tyrion looked as though he wanted to touch her, comfort her in any way he could, but hesitated - and then, deciding pride and caution have no meaning anymore, he reached out tentatively and put an arm about her shoulders. Sansa continued to sob as though neither he nor anyone or anything else could make the least difference, but he held her and stroked her hair until Sansa could not but become aware that she is in the Imp's arms, and this made her feel self-conscious and awkward. This awkwardness, however, served to push aside at least some of the horrible grief.

"Damn them," Tyrion said softly, and although it wasn't clear whom he meant, his presence was reassuring. "Do you want me to bring you anything to help you sleep, Sansa? Should I call for some dreamwine?"

"I - no, thank you, my lord." She didn't want to numb the pain. It would only make things worse when she woke. Instead, on a sudden impulse, she said something unexpected. "Will you... will you sing for me, my lord?"

"Sing?" Tyrion appeared confused, but in her present state of mind, thought it better not to argue. "You have never heard me sing, my lady. I have no voice for it."

"It doesn't matter."

"As you wish, then. What would you like me to sing?"

"Anything you can recall."

He did have a pleasant, rich voice, but now that the warm rush of feeling was gone and he removed his arm from Sansa's shoulder, he felt self-conscious as well. _"I loved a maid as white as winter," _he sang, _"with moonglow in her hair..."_

When he finished, Sansa was lying very still and quiet, but her eyes were wide open. She now thought of what her mother said to her in the dream. _Next to you. _Was it a hint? A warning? Or maybe she didn't even remember correctly. Already the memory of the dream was becoming foggy.

"I thought I was in possession of some control," said Tyrion, "but we are both no more than pieces in this vile game. Still, I..." he groped for words. "I will do whatever I can to prevent further pain coming your way. You have suffered enough."

"That is kind of you to say, my lord," Sansa made an attempt to return to her shell of smooth courtesy. _Her armor._

Tyrion's suppressed snort was nevertheless audible. "Perhaps soon, more people will see just how kind I can be," he said, "now try and sleep, Sansa."

And Sansa slept.


	3. Chapter 3

Tyrion was not at all in the mood to attend yet another feast in honor of Joffrey's betrothal, but there was nothing he could do. He decided, however, to spare Sansa the necessity of going; he dispatched Pod to tell her he will not return to sup with her, and to bid her to go to sleep as early as possible. Then he sighed, straightened, and went forward to spend an unpleasant couple of hours in the company of his father, sister, nephew and a dozen-odd lordlings and lickspittles.

The soup has already been served when he arrived. "Tyrion," his father greeted him coldly when Tyrion took his customary place between Lord Tywin and Cersei. "You are late. And where, pray, is your wife?"

"My lady is indisposed," Tyrion replied in a tone of equal coolness.

"Is she?" sniggered Joffrey. "Have you finally gotten her with child, then, Uncle Imp?"

"Joff, that is enough," Cersei laid a hand on her son's arm, but she couldn't stop the malicious smile that spread on her lips.

Tyrion ignored this. "I will have some wine," he declared.

Under the bustle of changing courses, Lord Tywin looked directly at his son. As always, his gaze was cold and green and penetrating. "That was a bad jape," he said, "my grandson should learn his courtesies, but he hits close to the spot. I have told you this before, Tyrion. Your behavior puzzles and displeases me."

The words of house Lannister were _Hear Me Roar_, but Lord Tywin had no need of that. He could speak mildly and quietly and people would still feel their knees buckle. Underneath the gilded gold, Tywin Lannister was unyielding steel. "I removed the traitor Robb Stark and gave you Sansa, the eldest of his remaining siblings. By doing so, I practically served you the north on a silver platter. All you have to do is bed her and get her with child, yet you seem unequal even to _this_ simple task."

"I have told you before..." Tyrion said angrily, but Lord Tywin raised his hand, silencing him.

"I will hear no more of your reasons why your wife is still a maid. I have told you before that a marriage which was not consummated can be set aside. I wouldn't wish to inflict such shame upon my own son, but if you go on this way, I might be forced to do so. We cannot risk losing Sansa Stark; if you won't take her maidenhead, I will annul your marriage and give her to someone loyal and trusty who has none of your qualms. Then no one can challenge our alliance with house Stark and our claims on the north."

Tyrion looked at his father with eyes full of contempt. "I shall think of what you said," he promised nevertheless. Lord Tywin nodded, untroubled.

"Think, Tyrion. And do not say you haven't been warned."

Although it was very late when he returned to his chambers, Tyrion still found Sansa awake. She was sitting in bed, and reading by the light of a single candle. To Tyrion's surprise, the book in her hands was the volume on dragons which he left on the sideboard last night.

"You should be asleep, my lady," he admonished her. "You have been missing a lot of sleep lately."

"I was asleep," said Sansa, "but there was thunder outside the window, and I woke and could not go to sleep again. So I picked this up," she indicated the book. "I think I am beginning to understand your fascination with them."

"Dragons?" Tyrion could not suppress a faint smile. "I would have given half my life to see one in flesh and fire, and ride him." _On the back of a dragon, it wouldn't matter that I am a dwarf. I would soar high above all who mock me._

"You are very late tonight, my lord," Sansa pointed out.

"There was another feast in honor of my nephew and Margaery Tyrell," said Tyrion, taking off his boots and kneading the aching muscles of his legs. "I didn't think you would care for the sight of Joff's face." _And there was no bloody way I would give him this opportunity to torment you with details of the Red Wedding. _

"I would not," Sansa said, "but... I must have been expected there."

"Yes," Tyrion confessed, "don't worry, though. I told you weren't feeling well... which isn't far from the truth, I fear," he sighed.

"Was there anything else?" Sansa asked, studying his face._ This girl reads you like an open book, Imp. Well, you had better tell her and get it over with._

"I'm afraid so," Tyrion admitted uncomfortably. "My father... he pried, once again, into what is happening between you and me in our bedchamber."

Sansa blushed to the roots of her hair, but Tyrion knew gentleness of expression would not make this any less mortifying. "He told me, quite plainly, that if I do not consummate this marriage, he will command the High Septon to set it aside, and give you to someone else."

Sansa became pale as death, and the book fell out of her hand to the floor with a loud thud.

"It was only a threat," Tyrion added quickly.

"Your father doesn't threat in vain," Sansa whispered in a quivering voice. "I..." she could hardly get the words out of her mouth. "I think... I - you must... do it."

"Do it?" Tyrion raised an eyebrow. Even in the candlelight, it was plain that her face had turned the most brilliant shade of scarlet. "No," he said, "I will not."

Sansa looked relieved and fearful at the same time. "I don't want them to marry me to someone else," she blurted out. "You... you are good to me, and..." _And anyone else they might find for you most likely won't be. _"I prefer it to be you," she finished in a very small voice.

_Well, _Tyrion throught wryly, _it is nice to be preferred. _However, if Sansa expected to see triumph or lust or satisfaction upon his face as she said that last phrase, she was surprised. Tyrion's expression was very serious, almost sad. "I am no longer thirteen years old," he said, "I will never again let my father manipulate me by making me bed a woman against her will."

There was a story behind those words, Sansa knew, but she didn't dare to ask. "It would not be against my will," she insisted, but she trembled even as she said this. "On our wedding night, you told me you would not touch me until I ask you to. I am asking you to do it now... my lord."

"I said I would not touch you until you _want_ me to," Tyrion corrected.

"Does it make a difference?" Sansa looked at him innocently.

"Yes," he said, and was silent for a long time.

"Do you still want me?" Sansa blurted out. This was such a bold, straight, almost improper question, and so out of line with her ladylike self that Tyrion stared in disbelief. Once the words left her mouth Sansa looked, if possible, even more embarrassed than before.

Tyrion sat closer to her on the bed and looked in her eyes. She didn't look away, and although he still saw fear in her gaze, the disgust and pity seemed to be gone. He reached out and very gently brushed away a stray lock of auburn hair.

"You might be very young, Sansa," he said in a very low voice, "but you aren't blind," his eyes never left hers. "You are good and kind and honorable, and in your way, yes, you are brave. And you are so beautiful I can sometimes hardly bear to look at you," he paused, "yes, I do want you," he confessed, "at times it seems to me I have never wanted anything in my life as badly as I want you."

He could not stand this anymore; he moved a little farther away, but he still could not tear his eyes away from Sansa's deep blue stare. He could not puzzle out her expression, but she listened raptly to every word. He was done speaking, however. He reached for the dagger on his belt and drew it out. The thin blade shone dangerously, reflecting the candlelight.

"What... what are you doing, my lord?" Sansa asked uncertainly, with a shadow of fear. His face must have been very grim.

"My father wants a bloody sheet," said Tyrion, "I will give him one." Without hesitation, he cut into the flesh of his palm, and a spurt of blood smeared the white bedcovers. He winced, and Sansa gasped.

"You should not have done this," she said, "it is no good. Your father will know anyway."

"Perhaps," conceded Tyrion, "but it might buy some time."

Sansa rummaged in the linen-drawer for a clean handkerchief, tore it and, although she could hardly abide even the sight of her own moon's blood these days, bandaged Tyrion's hand herself. All the while, he looked away, but when she was done their eyes met again. On a sudden impulse, Sansa leaned forward and her lips brushed against his scarred cheek, a touch as light and fleeting as the wing of a butterfly.

"Thank you," she said quietly, "Tyrion." He looked surprised and pleased, but then her eyes suddenly filled with tears. "You go to a lot of trouble on my account."

"You have no reason to feel guilty," he assured her, "none of this is your fault."

She hesitated, but then, very slowly, her hand reached out and took his, the bandaged one. "There is something I want to tell you," she said.


	4. Chapter 4

Sansa told Tyrion of her meetings with Ser Dontos in the godswood, and all the time while she spoke, his passionate words from a few minutes earlier echoed in her ears. _I have never wanted anything in my life as badly as I want you. _This ought to have been a cause for concern, but the feeling that settled in the pit of her stomach was suspiciously like excitement. _He loves me, _she realized. _He loves me, but could I ever love him back? _All of this confused her in the extreme, but she knew she could not deal with it then. _I will think about it later. There will be time. _

When she finished her tale, her husband frowned. "So all the times you told you were going to the godswood to pray, in truth you went to see this lackwit Dontos?"

"Not all the times," Sansa corrected him, "not even most. But he did... he did come to see me fairly regularly, my lord."

Tyrion sighed, troubled but not actually angry. "Have you ever thought how dangerous this might be?" Sansa just stared at him, and blinked. "I understand," he nodded, "you didn't feel as though you had anything to lose. In your place, I would likely have felt the same. But did you ever stop to think who might be standing behind this knightly fool? Because it should have been obvious to you he is not acting on his own."

"I..." Sansa hesitated. "I thought of it, yes, and lately I have wondered - wondered if..." she looked at him questioningly.

"Me?" Tyrion shook his head. "No, never me, Sansa. I would not have played such a game with you."

She could see Tyrion was raking his brains, and all of a sudden, recalled something important. She went to one of her drawers and from a lacquered jewelry box, procured a very delicate spun silver hair net, dotted with black amethysts. "Last time we met, Dontos gave me this," she said, holding out the net for Tyrion, "he told me I must wear it on the night of Joffrey's wedding feast. He said it is my key to going home, away from here... although I didn't understand how."

Tyrion took the hair net gingerly, as if he was touching a venomous spider. He looked it over, spread it between his fingers, probed the glittering black stones. His fingers lingered on one of them, which seemed to be loose in its socket. It didn't take much effort to pry it out, and it rested on Tyrion's palm, its black glitter ominous. "Sansa," Tyrion said in a strained voice, "do you know what this is?"

"An amethyst," she said.

"No," he said, and his tone made her sense a sudden chill. "I am no maester, but I have once taken a fancy to such matters, and read and studied a great deal. I can tell you what this is. It is deadly poison, expertly wrought in the shape of a crystal. It can kill within minutes. See here? If you look carefully, you can notice its color is not quite like that of the real stones in this hair net. The amethysts are purple, very dark, but this is a true black, and light doesn't shine through it."

"Could it be?" Sansa said fearfully. "It looks so much like an amethyst."

"There is one way to know for sure," said Tyrion, "Sansa, would you be so kind as to pour a cup of water?" when she did, he dropped the black stone into the cup. It instantly dissolved with a low hiss, and the water had turned murky. Sansa and Tyrion exchanged glances; Sansa went pale. "You see," Tyrion continued dispassionately, as if this was a lesson, "the water changes its color, but if it were wine, and if it was night, and if there were lots of people and celebration and bustle around... it would have been only too easy to slip something like this in a cup, and I think we can both guess for whom this was meant. Someone is planning to poison my precious royal nephew at his own wedding feast," his mouth twisted in a grim smile.

"Who would want to kill Joffrey?" asked Sansa.

Tyrion let out a mirthless chuckle. "Who wouldn't? Without even thinking too hard, I can come up with no less than a dozen people who'd wish Joff dead, you and I among them. The question is, who would actually dare to do this... and it is, of course, the same person who kept in touch with you through Dontos. I cannot know who it is, but I do know this: a dangerous web of secrets is being woven, and you have unwittingly stumbled into the very middle of it. It is known you have reason aplenty to hate Joffrey; and it would be all too easy to pass off a story of jealous murder by a betrothed who was set aside in favor of the lovely lady Margaery."

Gooseprickles covered Sansa's arms now, even under the warm sleeping shift she wore. "Are you going to tell about this, my lord? To - to the queen and your lord father?"

"No," Tyrion shook his head, "for one, I think all of Westeros should breathe a sigh of relief if we are rid of Joffrey. I think you will agree with me here. Also, my father and Cersei wouldn't believe me, or if they would, they'd think you were a traitor. Your own life would be in danger."

Sansa knew he was right. "So... what are you planning to do?"

Tyrion looked straight at her. "King's Landing is becoming an increasingly dangerous place," he said, "and I don't think it is at all necessary for me to grace my nephew's wedding with my presence. I plan to be gone as soon as possible - _before_ the wedding. And it goes without saying," his voice softened, "that I do not intend to leave you here."

"You propose that we flee?" Sansa asked in wonder. Her heart began to flutter again. This, after all, was what she had dreamed about all this time; freedom from King's Landing, from the court, freedom to go home... only she had no home now. Her father, her mother, her brothers and sister were all dead or disappeared without a trace, and Winterfell burned to the ground. Of course, she still wanted to be gone from King's Landing, only she didn't dream such an escape could happen in the company of her Lannister husband. "Where would we go?" she asked him.

"I'm afraid any place in Westeros is out of the question," Tyrion said, "if this really is as dangerous as I believe, we ought to make it across the narrow sea, to the Free Cities. Do not worry about the details. Enough gold will make people blind, deaf and mute, and will buy us passage on a ship that makes a swift and straight way to Braavos, if..." he hesitated, "if you trust me enough to go with me."

Sansa knew her eyes conveyed the truth of her thoughts. Tyrion was good to her, gentle and protective and considerate, but after all she had been through, it was difficult to trust anyone - especially someone with whom she was thrown together by those who have ruined all she held dear. However, the very thought of leaving King's Landing so soon, of never having to see Joffrey or the queen or any one of them again made her heart sing... and something told her Tyrion was right. Dontos was not what she thought, and she ought to have realized it earlier._ I have been such a fool. _Slowly, she nodded. "I will go with you," she said.

"Good," said Tyrion, obviously relieved, "you should choose a few garments for the journey, but not too many. It will be seem very suspicious if someone notices that you are packing..."

Neither then nor later Sansa could understand what made her interrupt Tyrion at that very moment and say, "are you going to take Shae with you as well, my lord?"

She regretted those words as soon as they left her mouth, but it was still strangely satisfying to see his embarrassment. Tyrion turned very red and attempted to say something, but it took him a while to compose himself. "Shae," he finally said, with difficulty. "I - it is futile to pretend, but she - I mean to say - "

"I think I was the last to find out about it all," Sansa went on, "but I ought to have wondered earlier. There _were_ some odd things about her."

"You are angry," Tyrion observed, and there was no mistaking the tone of surprise in his voice.

"I am not," Sansa said quickly, "my lord is within his right to do as he pleases."

He snorted. "No one can do as he pleases, Sansa." He looked at her once more, earnestly and seriously. "No, I certainly do not intend to take her with me. I do not intend to ever see her again."

Nothing remained to be said on the subject, and for a little while they remained silent. Finally, Sansa asked, "how will we know if anything happened at the wedding feast?"

Tyrion looked unconcerned. "Talk will travel quick enough," he said, "even across the sea."


	5. Chapter 5

Their cabin on _The Golden Arrow _was the most spacious on the ship, but compared to their quarters in King's Landing it was cramped and stuffy. The bed, too, although it was supposed to accommodate two people, made it far more difficult to maintain the respectful distance each has kept so far. The ship rocked backwards and forwards and sideways and they rocked with it, and one time a particularly strong lurch threw Sansa right into Tyrion's arms, and for a moment both of them froze. Then she slowly edged aside. It surprised and confused her to acknowledge that she actually felt no particular urge to move away. She felt so cold, and Tyrion was so warm, and... but of course, she did what was expected by both of them, and retreated to her own space.

She dreamed and did not remember the dream when she woke, but her mother's voice echoed in her ears once more. _Next to you._ Around her, all was pitch-black, and next to her all she could hear was Tyrion's slow, even breathing. In the dark, all was different; in the dark, all that remained was his voice and the words he spoke, kind and reassuring and sometimes so witty that Sansa laughed like she thought she would never laugh again after the death of her father. There was his comforting presence and his smell - he smelled good, somehow; well, obviously neither of them could boast of being as clean as usual ever since they boarded the ship, and they both were in need of a good bath, but Tyrion didn't _reek_ like other men.

As for what she saw by daylight - his small stature, his mismatched eyes, his scarred face - none of it grew fairer, but somehow, the ugliness was now registered only in Sansa's brain. She was still aware of it, but it didn't transfix her attention as it did before. Quite simply, she was getting used to it.

And sometimes... sometimes she wished he would speak to her, again, with the passion she heard in his voice on the night they made the decision to escape King's Landing together. And hold her hand like he sometimes did, and... but Tyrion, although as amiable and courteous as he always was to her, was also reserved. A part of her wished for this reserve to be broken; another part feared what would happen as consequence.

Although _The Golden Arrow_ boasted of being the swiftest ship to sail across the narrow sea, some unfortunate autumn currents and unexpected storms threw them back, and when they did arrive in Braavos, it turned out that there were already ships from Westeros who sailed out later than they did, and arrived earlier. One captain of such a ship, _The White Gull, _turned out to be friendly with _The Arrow's _captain. When they reached the harbor of Braavos, the two men shook hands warmly, and _The Gull's _captain whispered a few words in the ear of the other man. The expression on his face instantly registered extreme surprise.

"I have heard the most fascinating tale, m'lord," he turned to Tyrion, who was just helping Sansa descend to the docks. "It appears high treason took place in King's Landing, right after we sailed out. Someone poisoned our young King Joffrey at his own wedding." He looked pointedly at Tyrion. He knew, of course, who the dwarf and the pretty young girl traveling with him were, but the fat purse of gold he received from Tyrion made him conveniently inattentive to such details.

Even though firm ground was now under Sansa's feet, she felt as though she was about to lose her balance and had to grip Tyrion's arm to keep from falling. They exchanged a glance full of understanding.

"How tragic," said Tyrion. "Is it known who committed this vile deed?"

"Well," the captain scratched his nose. "Rumour is, king's uncle disappeared without a trace shortly before the wedding, together with his lady wife. As you can understand, this is very suspicious," he didn't add anything, but his expression spoke volumes.

"Indeed," said Tyrion, procuring another pouch of money from an inner pocket of his cloak. The pleasant clinking of silver coins could be heard. "Well, my friend, I thank you for your skillful navigation through these dangerous waters... and trust that I will soon disappear from your memory. It is easy to forget a man as small as myself, after all."

"Just so, m'lord," said the captain, and took the money with a bow.

As soon as they could obtain suitable accommodations in a local inn for rich travelers, Sansa sank down upon the bed and looked at Tyrion, her eyes wide. "You were right," she said, "you were right, you guessed it all - oh, thank the gods I told you, or I would have still been there and - "

"Yes," nodded Tyrion, "most likely we both would have ended in a nice snug cell somewhere deep under Maegor's Holdfast. Well, the plot seems to have worked out even without your hair net, Sansa. Someone was determined enough to get rid of Joffrey... and I must say I cannot blame them. I would pay dearly to know who it was, too. All the same, I am glad to be well away from King's Landing. Of course, it so happens that we are now the primary suspects. Our disappearance must have been very conspicuous."

"You saved us," Sansa breathed out. "If you hadn't figured it out, if you hadn't seen that the amethyst was really a poison crystal..."

He shrugged modestly. "It wasn't difficult, for someone who has read about them as much as I did. I would have been ashamed of myself - not to mention very sorry - if I hadn't been able to notice it."

Tyrion took two rooms for them, and for the first time in long months, Sansa had the privacy of her own wide and spacious bed... but despite the feather blankets and the hot bath she took just before getting under them, she shivered. After wishing for so long for the privacy of her own bed, she suddenly became aware she didn't want that anymore.

Despite the late hour, her husband was still awake when she knocked, and looked at her in extreme surprise. "Sansa," he said, and stopped. There must have been something in her face that rendered him silent.

"I couldn't sleep," said Sansa, "I kept thinking of the day I left Winterfell. Everything was so beautiful then, like a fairy tale or one of the songs I loved so much. I dreamed of the lovely life ahead of me, of knights in shiny armor and of my handsome prince who would one day be king. But he turned out to be a monster... and now he is dead. He is dead and I am alive," she continued, "and I know I am going to be well. Thanks to you," she looked at Tyrion, and although tears clouded her eyes, she didn't think she had ever seen more clearly. If it weren't for him, she would have killed herself, or been a helpless plaything with no hope, no life, no dignity. In her moment of need, he took her hand in his and lifted her up, and she knew that the entire course of her life was changed by his kind generosity.

Heart hammering, she took a step towards him, then another. She sat by his side on the bed and turned to face him. Then, not giving herself time to think about it, she pressed her lips to his and sensed how he froze in astonishment. She didn't move, though, and he responded to her kiss - lightly at first, then more warmly, giving free rein to the feeling that was suppressed for so long. Unexpectedly, Sansa found that her mouth opened under his and she pressed even closer. Her head swam, and her heart beat wildly. It was as though every nerve in her body was aquiver.

Suddenly, Tyrion broke off, breathing with difficulty. "No," he said hoarsely. "Sansa, you don't have to do this to - to - thank me, any more than you had to do this before because of your sense of duty or out of fear or - "

Sansa took a deep breath, bracing herself. She had hoped he would make it easier, but evidently, it was not to be, and who could blame him? She had rejected him so thoroughly and for so long. She reached for the laces of her dress and began to undo them.

"What are you doing?" Tyrion asked in total bewilderment.

"Taking this off," she explained innocently.

"You are shivering," he said, hardly aware of the words his tongue formed.

It was true. "So are you."

"No," he said again as her dress slid down to the floor, but even though Sansa was trembling with nerves such as she had never felt since their wedding night, she knew she was not going to stop.

"Yes," she said, and kissed him again. The force of _this_ kiss, when he returned it, nearly swept her off her feet; there was such longing in it, such need and passion that she felt as though her heart would burst. She helped Tyrion out of his breeches and tunic and finally, his hands seemed to be all over her body, and it felt so good she could scarcely believe it. _He_ felt so good she could scarcely believe it. Even though her heart was still beating like a war drum, the fear was gone, dispelled by the tenderness of his touch. It was as though he hardly believed he dared to touch her, but at the same time couldn't stop even for a moment.

He eased her onto her back. _It is finally going to happen. _And although she still couldn't imagine what _it _would feel like, she knew it would be good. A desire she could not clearly define swept over her. _I want him to touch me, _she realized, and the thought was thrilling and wicked at the same time. Instinctively, she wrapped her legs around him, and...

... and then he stopped. "Wait," he panted. A spasm of pain passed upon his face. "Sansa, if we do this... there is no way back. Our marriage, it would be... real. And it would be forever."

She nodded. And smiled. _In your way, you are brave. _"We are going to do this," she said, "we are going to do this now."

It didn't hurt, exactly; she had experienced a moment or two of a sharp, uncomfortable feeling, but no discomfort had ever felt so right. Then it was over, but the intense, powerful feeling remained, ruling over her, overpowering her. Yes, it was good. And she wanted _more._

Throughout the night, they remained entwined in each other's arms, drifting in and out of hazy sleep. And in one of her waking spells, Sansa finally understood the meaning of her mother's words. _Next to you. It was there. It was always there. _All she would ever want or need was in the man next to her. And now he really and truly belonged to her, for now and all time.

_A/N: As always, I would like to thank my readers. Without your generous feedback and inspiring suggestions, none of this would have been possible. _


	6. Chapter 6

"This is quite a sight," said Sansa in a low voice, as the luxuriously bedecked boat sailed slowly towards the place where they were standing. Many people in lacquered masks, some of them beautiful, some grotesque, weighed the boat - barge, really - down to an extent when it seemed a miracle it didn't sink. "Who is it? Such a retinue seems fit for a queen."

"It is," Tyrion replied cautiously, "a queen of sorts." _The queen of whores. At least here. She has a mighty rival in King's Landing, though. _"This is one of the most famous," he gave a small cough, "courtesans of Braavos. She is called the Summer Maid."

"She looks very elegant," remarked Sansa, squinting. The woman sitting in the middle front of the boat was wearing a dress of midnight blue velvet, and fantastic shapes, beasts and dragons and strange plants, were embroidered upon it in silver thread. A cloth-of-silver cape was fastened about her head and around her slender neck, and a blank mask of dark lacquered wood covered her face completely. This, Tyrion knew, was the true secret of the beauty the courtesans of Braavos were famous for. They might be ordinary women, some of them not even so young anymore, but an unattractive mole, the deepening lines around their mouth and the crow's feet about the corners of their eyes were glimpsed by no one but those rich enough to share their bedchambers, and then these small defects were unnoticed by men intoxicated with wine and the arts of love.

Somehow, he didn't think the famous Summer Maid was very young. She carried herself with too much solemn dignity, much more fitting for a high-born lady than for someone who was, ultimately, a well-dressed whore. She formed a striking figure, and her boat, which resembled a small floating castle, indicated of her riches. He and Sansa were just two in a small throng of idle observers who stopped by to watch her float by.

Only she did not float by. A sharp word sounded, and the boat stopped. There was a suppressed murmur of voices. A tall dark man - one of the few unmasked companions or servants of the Summer Maid - hopped down and, to Tyrion's most unpleasant surprise, poked a finger right at him and looked back, as if making sure he got the right person. _It is so very easy to become confused, with the numbers of Westerosi half-nosed dwarves swarming in the streets of Braavos. _

And then the Summer Maid herself stepped down, slowly, graciously, and each step of hers seemed to take an eternity. She stood right in front of him, and threw back her cap. She had thick, smooth dark hair, untarnished by the Braavosi mists, pulled back in an elaborate style.

Then, slowly, she removed her mask, and Tyrion's world came tumbling down. _A ghost. _Yes, surely she was a ghost, because he felt like one himself. The ghost of a thirteen-year-old boy who was long gone. _I loved a maid as fair as summer, with sunlight in her hair. _How could it be? How could_ she_ be? No, it wasn't her, no more than he was that boy, but he still would have recognized her no matter what. He tried to say something, but the only sound that managed to leave his throat was a bewildered croak.

The Summer Maid's voice, on the other hand, was smooth and dark as the waters of the Braavosi canals.

"I did not expect to meet you here, Tyrion."

Helplessly, he glanced at Sansa, who looked confused in the extreme. How would he try to explain? They never discussed the matter of this... of his... his marriage. His first marriage. Oh gods, why now?

"Tysha." The name has not passed his lips since the night he and Sansa were wed, and even then in passing. How could he tell more to this child bride of his, who was so frightened and so full of grief? She had made his heart ache with longing, which then seemed hopeless. Yet now...

"Come," said the Summer Maid, inviting him to step onto the barge with a short, queenly gesture that was nothing like he remembered of her. "There are some things which need to be said. Come aboard, Tyrion. Your lady is invited as well," she added with cool graciousness, and her eyes surveyed Sansa with a penetration which made Tyrion quail.

"My wife," he explained bravely.

"Your wife," Tysha repeated with a nod. "I see." She offered a smile that was as beautiful as it was empty. "My lady of Lannister," she addressed Sansa, "I'm afraid what I have to say concerns particularly your husand, but I assure you, you will not be bored while you wait. I have singers and minsterls and dancers that will make the time pass swiftly, and fruit and sweet wine will be served."

"That is... most gracious of you," said Sansa in wary acquiscence. She gathered her skirts and allowed a servant with a horned mask to hand her into the barge. There was, truly, no choice left for Tyrion.

He took a deep breath, felt the pleasantly cool evening air sear his lungs as if it was the icy breath of winter, and stepped up after his wife. The first or the second, at that moment he knew not.

_A/N: I appreciate the continued support and encouragement of my readers and friends, who made me pick up this story again._

_The idea that the Summer Maid is in fact Tysha is NOT mine, and belongs exclusively to SilverRavenStar, the author of the all-time best ASoIaF fanfiction novel "The North Remembers". This novel is officially adopted by me as canon, until such time as "The Winds of Winter" comes out, which, I realize judging from previous experience with GRRM, might not be until the Wall crumbles and falls and the Long Night begins. _


	7. Chapter 7

The barge on water didn't do much of a dance, more of a gentle sway, but Tyrion felt nauseated, and could taste bile at the back of his throat just from looking at her sitting across him like this, surrounded by opulence, the fingers of her hands serenely interlocked. Despite the immediate recognition that stunned him so, he now noticed, detail after detail, how different she was from the girl he had briefly loved all those years ago. She was confident and powerful in her beauty, and knowledgeable in ways of the world. But how she could have ended up in Braavos, for the life of him he couldn't even begin to imagine.

"I was surprised to see you," said Tysha. This calm understatement made him snort despite his will. "Oh, I knew you were in Braavos, of course," she went on, rendering him silent. "But I wouldn't think it prudent to expose yourself so. You must know there are some who bear you ill will." Another understatement. "If I were you, I would keep my head down and my traces covered... as much as possible."

"Is this why you brought me here?" snapped Tyrion. "To give me advice?"

For a moment, a shadow of anger flickered in the eyes he had once kissed each night before falling asleep. "No doubt it was folly. I should have left you standing there, and you would never have known it was me who sailed by."

That was too true. "How did you know I am in Braavos?"

"Oh, I am rather well-connected now," she said simply. "And I know what is going on in Westeros. I know you were blamed for your nephew's death... and I know your sister, the Queen Regent, will pay a fortune to anyone who brings her your head."

"Then I can only hope it is not in your intention to make that fortune," said Tyrion half-mockingly. Her nostrils flared slightly, another sign of suppressed anger.

"I do not want gold," said Tysha, "I didn't want it when I didn't have it, and I want it even less now that I do."

_What do you want, then? _"How is it that you came here?"

"I went to a place where I could be no one," she said, "so that I could become whatever I wanted. I learned to sing and play the harp, dance and make conversation in all the common languages... and I was instructed in the knowledge of how to give pleasure to men, how to attend to their moods and make my company always agreeable. It was the obvious thing for me to do, becoming a courtesan, once your lordly father made a proper whore out of me."

The bitterness in her voice was jarring, and something she said didn't quite fit. "What do you mean, my father made a whore out of you? We both know..."

"We both know what he told you," her voice was clearer, stronger. A minstrel was playing a peculiar-sounding instrument outside the door. "We also know you believed it without question."

Tyrion blinked, suspended in a state that was not even the beginning of comprehension. "I don't..."

Abruptly, she stood up. Her self-restraint, the calm, assured way in which she conducted herself only a minute ago were gone without a trace. "Did you ever, even for a moment, consider that perhaps your father lied to you about me? That no one bought me for you?"

Without even understanding why, he felt a sickly shiver take over his body. "The truth," he spat out, hardly knowing what he said, "I want to know the truth."

"The truth?" Her fingernails dug into the flesh of her palms. "Very well. I will tell it. The truth was that you never believed I could love you."

He stared at her. A cold pit of horror began to open underneath his feet, and he felt he is being sucked into it. "This cannot be."

"Why would I lie to you?" she demanded sharply. "Now, after all these years? Now, when there is nothing I could possibly want from you?"

"My father - he is capable of anything, but - my brother... my brother, Jaime... he would never lie to me, I know he wouldn't, and he said..."

"And you think your brother was not under the thumb of your father, just as you were?" she gave a short, bitter laugh. "For them, I was just a common girl. I wasn't supposed to make any difference."

"But you did," Tyrion blinked away the tears that stung the corners of his eyes. "I could never stop thinking about what happened, but not once did it occur to me to doubt... I never believed..." _I never believed you when you screamed. No, no, it isn't true. No, Tyrion, don't let them do this. _Still sitting, he looked up at her. Her face was a mask of old, frozen grief, veiled by beauty and dignity. "If I knew, no one could have made me..." _If I knew, I would have died, trying to kill my father's guards one by one._

"You had better go now," said Tysha, and the finality of her tone clipped his incoherent speech, rendering him mute. Dazed, shocked, his brain aching, Tyrion fumbled for the door handle and staggered out of the cabin.


	8. Chapter 8

Sansa sat with her head in her hands. The conversation she had had with Tyrion kept replaying in her mind.

"So that – that woman... the Summer Maid – _she_ is Tysha? Your first wife?" she had asked in astonishment after the stream of his half-coherent phrases ran out.

"You are right to be amazed," Tyrion said. "If I ever thought I would meet her again, I never imagined it to be like this. Do not pity me, Sansa," he added with a weary sigh as he saw her eyes fill with tears.

"What are you going to do now?" Sansa asked in a hushed voice some moments later. His expression told her the meaning of her question was incomprehensible to him in his current state. As much as she wished she could simply hold her tongue, she felt compelled to go on. "She was – is – your wife."

Tyrion shook his head. "My father found a septon who annulled the marriage. Then, he told me it is as if we were never wed at all."

"But you accepted this because of a lie," said Sansa. "Does this mean that now, when you know the truth, the annulment no longer stands?"

He looked at her as though he only now grasped what she was asking. "I don't know," he said in a hollow voice.

Sansa now privately recognized her initial feelings, when she first found out about Tyrion's affair with Shae, as superficial jealousy. Now, though... this was the woman who haunted his dreams, his first and purest love. She felt small and exposed and vulnerable at the thought that the fragile happiness they managed to find in one another may be lost. Yet who was to blame? Not Tyrion, surely. And not Tysha. They were but children, victims of Tywin Lannister's schemes. _Just like me, _Sansa thought with a jolt.

And now she sat, her elbows on the arm-rests of a silk-padded chair, her forehead pressed into her knuckles so hard it almost hurt. She was alone in the room. _I don't know, _he said, and then he donned his cloak and walked out without saying another word. Sansa didn't need to take a lot of time to guess where he went.

Tyrion expected to see a luxurious abode, yet the staggering opulence of the Summer Maid's palace penetrated even the state of numb shock he was suspended in ever since Tysha's face was revealed to him on the canals of Braavos. It was a tall mansion with roof gardens that glimmered silver in the moonlight. The rush of a small fountain broke the silence in a soothing rhythm.

Two guards flanked the elaborately carved gate. They were trained not to betray a hint of emotion, but Tyrion thought he saw the younger one's eyebrows life just a notch. _They must think I am very rich, _he mused. _Otherwise, why would someone like me presume to come to the Summer Maid? _"Tyrion," he told his name to the guards. "Just Tyrion. Tell your mistress. She will receive me."

She did. The chamber he was led to would have put even Cersei's private quarters to shame. The walls were covered with tapestries that must have taken years to weave and embroider, and the smell of perfumed incense hung in the air. A low polished table of dark wood was covered with several shapely flagons and an attractive display of colorful foreign fruit.

And Tysha, the crofter's daughter, stood there as the rightful mistress of it all. Her attire betrayed no hint of her occupation. The dress of fine pearl grey silk, with rich trimmings in ornate black Myrish lace, was almost demure. Her dark hair was pulled back and covered with a delicately spun silver hair net. She could be presented at the court of King's Landing without evoking any remarks except about her elegance.

"Will you take some wine?" she offered serenely. He did, mostly because he was finding it hard to face her entirely sober. "I confess I didn't think you would come here," she went on, "but perhaps it is for the best. There is something I didn't tell you yet, and which I think you must know."

"Another truth?" Tyrion wasn't sure how much more of that he could stomach.

She paused, weighing her words. "You see, Tyrion," she said, "my warning to you was not just for old times' sake. I felt it is my duty to tell you to leave Braavos as soon as you can, because in fact, I am responsible for the act you are blamed for."

He frowned in puzzlement. "I don't understand."

She removed her hair net, so that her sleek dark hair tumbled down her shoulders. Then she stretched the net between her slender white fingers and held it out for him to see. A black stone twinkled at every crossing of two strands of silver. "Does this design look familiar?" she inquired.

He recognized it at once, of course. The stones were black amethysts, and the net itself was almost an exact copy of the one Sansa showed him before Joffrey's wedding. "It was _you_?" he stammered.

"Me," she confirmed. "I am rather well-connected now, you know, and I have contacts beyond the NarrowSea. You would be surprised to discover how long I have known much of what is happening at King's Landing."

"_You_ were behind that dullard Ser Dontos?"

"Indirectly, of course. And he proved a most unworthy investment, because obviously," she gave a pale smile, "you outwitted him and fled with your wife. But at least you didn't attempt to thwart my plan to dispose of your royal nephew."

Tyrion was utterly bewildered. "I am not sorry for Joffrey," he hastened to make clear, "but... _why_?"

She eyed him warily for a moment or two, then poured a cup of wine for herself as well. "I think I ought to tell you my story, to begin with."

"I want to know everything," Tyrion said gravely.

"Well, then," said Tysha, taking a sip of wine, "when your lordly father sent me on my way all those years ago, I had with me a purse full of silver coins, and one coin of gold." Tyrion flinched, but said nothing. "Bruised as I was, hurt, confused, alone and afraid, I still knew what my first step must be. I found a woods' witch who brewed me some moon tea, to keep my belly from growing. It didn't help. I returned to her when I felt my womb quickening, and she made me a brew that was much stronger. It made me bleed so much I thought I would die, but that was the last I bled. My moon cycles never returned again."

Tyrion didn't know what to say, but it seemed she didn't await a response. She went on. "I began to work at odd places, as a scullery girl and milk maid and butter churner... from place to place I went, getting room and board and some coppers, and all the while my purse of silver and gold remained stashed away. And so, traveling inconspicuously, I reached WhiteHarbor. For a little while I worked at an inn there, waiting for a ship that would carry me across the sea. As far as I was concerned, I never wanted to see Westeros again. It was there that your brother found me," she added unexpectedly.

"_Jaime?_" Tyrion didn't attempt to hide his confusion.

"Do you have other brothers? It appears he was overwrought by guilt, and sought me out. He told me he had no choice but to go along with your father's machinations, and that I should do the same – for my own good – else I will be killed. He expressed such _concern_... and offered me money. I told him to find himself another inn for his stay, if he didn't want me to slit his throat while he sleeps. I also told him I have no need for gold – I had enough with your father's generous offering," her voice was so bitter Tyrion could hardly bear to listen, yet he didn't stir, as if mesmerized.

"Soon after, I paid all my silver for a cabin abroad a ship that headed for Braavos. Back then, I didn't know this noble city would be my final destination. I looked about me and continued to work here and there for a roof over my head and some bread and fish to keep my stomach full. Some fisherman gave me his oysters to sell for him. I would bring him a handful of coppers each night, and he would toss me two or three, and also the remaining oysters to eat.

Once, I stood on the bank of a canal, selling my oysters. A pleasant looking, motherly, very elegantly dressed woman stopped by. She spoke the Common Tongue, and was very kind to me. She told me I was beautiful, and what a pity it is to see such loveliness go to waste... or something of the sort. I cannot recall the exact words after so many years. She convinced me to leave my cart there, and took me to the loveliest mansion I have ever seen, where she helped me wash and comb my hair, and dressed me in pretty clothes. When I saw myself in the mirror, my eyes lit up for the first time in many months. _You can always wear silks and velvets, _she told me. _In time, you can have a beautiful house like mine, all for yourself. All you have to do is say yes."_

"Yes to what?" asked Tyrion in a pained voice. He already knew the answer.

"Yes to the only thing I was fit for. To spread my legs for men who pay the price – although in Braavos, I soon learned, the entire thing was embellished almost beyond belief. As I watched my patroness entertain her guests, she would talk and sing and laugh and dance for hours. The bedchamber was almost an afterthought. One evening, she asked me to come downstairs with the other girls. _The decision is yours, _she told me. _But this is a splendid opportunity for you to start. Do you see that Tyroshi merchant prince? I know him well. He comes to call every time he stops in Braavos. He has a great interest in the Seven Kingdoms. He is so handsome and gallant, and I am sure he will be very pleased with you. _

Well, I was awkward in conversation, and I was rather stiff as I found myself naked under the bedclothes with him, but he was courteous and gentle and, as the place itself had such a high reputation, he couldn't bring himself to contradict it. He left me with warm praise, and I thought that maybe it's not so bad after all. Besides, what else was there for me to do? I had no skill that would support me with dignity, and I knew I would never marry. I gave my last remaining coin – the gold coin – to my patroness, and thus bought the entrance ticket into my apprenticeship.

I was instructed in several common languages, singing and dancing and playing the harp, choosing fabrics and wearing garments to my best advantage, and I even taught myself to read and write. And of course, there was the art of pleasing men, in bed and out. I was treated kindly, and at first was exceedingly grateful. Later on, of course, I understood that I amply discharged my account by working for free in the first months. But then I began to receive wages, which gradually grew until I could permit myself to open a pleasure house all of my own. It wasn't long before I became renowned as the Summer Maid of Braavos, the most famous courtesan of the city. I was then around eighteen years old."

Tyrion could have opened his arms and begged the Stranger to take him then and there, but he wasn't sure even the darkest of the seven hells could contain him.

"I never forgot, though," Tysha's eyes flashed in sudden fury, and her voice rose a notch. "One day, I swore to myself, I would destroy Tywin Lannister. Destroy all Lannisters."

"Even me?" asked Tyrion with a humorless smile.

"Especially you... or so I felt at first. Later on I understood that your only fault was your weakness. But the others... your father, your brother... your sister, the queen Cersei, I never met – but I hated her all the same."

"You would hate her far more if you met her," Tyrion assured her.

"All my influence and power, my connections and gold would be worthless if I weren't able to crush Tywin Lannister like a cockroach. But it will happen. The Lannisters are not the only ones who pay their debts. Your nephew is already good and dead, and your father, brother and sister are going the same way. It takes time, though. You might meet your end before they do, if one of their catspaws finds your tracks in Braavos. There are more of the queen's men here than you imagine. That is why you must leave, and the sooner the better."

"Does it even matter to you if I live or die?" Tyrion asked, for the first time looking directly in her eyes.

"Yes," Tysha said softly, "I'm afraid it does."

And those were these last words, more than all the rest, that made Tyrion stagger along the canals after he left, without the faintest thought of where he was going, and eventually drop down on his knees and weep without shame.


	9. Chapter 9

It was very late when Tyrion returned. Sansa didn't notice how her head came to rest over her crossed arms and how the candle flickered and guttered and eventually was extinguished. Only the small dull light of the oil lamp illuminated the room when the door opened with a creak.

Sansa lifted her head, startled. Her neck ached and her shoulders were stiff, and she had no idea what hour it may be. "I am sorry," her husband said, "I didn't notice how long I have been gone." Even in the weak light, it was easy to see his face was gaunt and full of shadows.

"There is no need to apologize," said Sansa. "I knew you would not rest until you find out more."

He shut the door behind him and bolted it, waddled over to the bed, and sat on it heavily, with a weary sigh. "I think I found out too much," he said. Sansa walked over and sat next to him. His head was bowed. "I failed her," he murmured. "I watched her being tortured and did nothing. She did not deserve that, even_ if_ what my father said about her had been true. She was thirteen years old, gods damn it all."

"You were thirteen years old too," Sansa reminded him gently. "You were entirely at your father's mercy. There was nothing you could have done. _Nothing."_

He lifted his pained, anguished gaze to her face. "You truly think so? Perhaps you are right. Perhaps there was nothing I could have done. But it was my duty at least to try, or die in the attempt."

Sansa blinked back her tears. Suddenly, his words from their wedding night sprang back to her mind. _I could be good to you. _And not only _could_ he be good to her, but he was, despite meeting a wall of icy courtesy. Always mindful of her comfort, always solicitous as to the matters of her safety. And it wasn't just her. Sansa never heard her husband snap harshly at a servant, or complain when the cook failed to provide a satisfactory dinner. And his squire Podrick, the well-meaning but unfortunately slow boy - Sansa could just imagine the grief he would have had if he was sent to serve any other.

Tyrion was generous. He was courteous. He protected the weak. Whenever he could, he acted for justice to be done. _My one true knight is small as a boy, and has never taken vows, _she thought as she stifled a laugh that was half a sob. _And it is good that I was made to marry him, or I never would have found him. _His body, his face - none of this mattered to her now. She would have given anything to take his pain away, but she knew it was not in her power. "I was afraid you would not come back at all," she confessed in a quiet voice.

Tyrion looked at her, startled. Then her meaning dawned upon him, and he shook his head. "Some things, once lost, can never be brought back," he said. "I wish I had had the good sense to stay away from Tysha in the first place. I should have known what my father is capable of. Yes, I ought to have known it even then."

The fire had gone out, but under the blankets, in each other's arms, they found comforting warmth. With his hand clasping Sansa's, Tyrion slept peacefully for the remainder of the night, but Sansa couldn't close her eyes. She lay wide awake, her eyes staring into the almost complete darkness, listening to her husband's breathing. When dawn was on the point of breaking, she disentangled her fingers from Tyrion's slackened grasp, silently got up, hastily scribbled a note, clumsily got dressed, donned a warm cloak and left.

She didn't know where the Summer Maid dwelt, but she was certain she could find her with little effort. Sure enough, the first bargeman she met, after some quick communication in snatches of the Common Tongue and odd words in Old Valyrian, agreed to take her to the famous courtesan's mansion. Sansa couldn't help but notice his smirk. _Perhaps he thinks I am an apprentice, _she thought in mortification. It made no difference, though. She knew she had to see this woman face to face.

Pale light was just beginning to break over the horizon, but even at this early hour the Summer Maid - Tysha, Sansa reminded herself - was immaculately, if informally dressed, and looked fresh as a spring flower. She wore a loose flowing gown of red silk, and her thick, shining dark hair was held off her brow with a silk ribbon of red and gold. A warm sable-trimmed cloak was wrapped around her shoulders, to ward off the night's chill. "What are you doing here, child?" she inquired rather impatiently.

Sansa thought she heard a rustle behind one of the doors that led off the chamber in which she was received. "Is anyone else here?" she asked nervously.

The Summer Maid looked amused. "I often have guests," she pointed out with a smile, "as you probably understand. It is common for some of them to stay overnight... and for some, this hour is the dead of night. I spoke with Tyrion the day before. To what do I owe the pleasure of seeing you here, Lady Sansa?"

Sansa took a deep breath. "You must forgive him," she said. "He is tormenting himself for what came to pass all those years ago. His heart will never heal until you forgive."

Tysha tilted her head to the side, so that her dark hair caught the candlelight. Despite the rising light outside, this room was still dark. "I thought I had, after a fashion," she said. "Otherwise, I wouldn't have warned Tyrion about being followed. I would have amused myself by watching him unwittingly play cat and mouse with the men Queen Cersei sent after him. Now he is more careful to cover his tracks. But if you remain here, I cannot promise you will survive past the turn of the moon."

To this last remark, Sansa had no suitable answer. "He always thought of you," she said instead. "I know it, even if he never spoke of it directly. I want him to be free. For his sake, not mine."

The Summer Maid looked thoughtful. "I know you were forced to marry him," she said, "but you do not loathe him, isn't that so?"

"I love him," Sansa said simply, and knew it to be true.

The high courtesan looked at her almost pityingly. "Go home, then, child. You strike me as a pious one. I used to be like that, too. I knew all the hymns for the Mother, the Maiden and the Crone, and hummed them as I did work for my father. But now the prayers are all gone, and I cannot distinguish between the faces of the gods. Go and ask them to grant peace to your husband, if they will. And then go away, both of you. _Go_."


	10. Chapter 10

After the door was closed behind Sansa Stark, Tysha let out an irritable sigh. "Am I supposed to deal with this so early in the morning?" she demanded from thin air.

Another door was opened, and a man stepped out from behind it, smiling in a most engaging manner. "That was an extraordinarily early visit," he remarked.

"I ought to dismiss that maid," Tysha went on. "Had she brought the Stark girl in a moment earlier, she would have seen you."

"She would have, but she did not. I'm lucky that way, I have noticed it often. Although I confess, I would have expected them to have gone by now. Tyrion Lannister is not one to neglect saving his own skin." A tiny frown creased Tysha's smooth brow, and her guest must have noticed that, because he let go of the matter at once.

"I thought you would arrive on board of _Lady Delena_, but she had come and gone a fortnight ago," said Tysha. "What kept you so long? I have other sources of news, of course, but none as reliable as you."

"I wish I could have escaped King's Landing earlier, but it was impossible to leave the queen with her grief so soon. Cersei relied upon me. And furthermore..." he paused for a moment. "I have been entrusted with another task," he finished enigmatically.

"Which task?" Tysha's eyes narrowed slightly.

"Not a very pleasant one, I fear."

"You aren't being sent to Harrenhal, are you?" despite being away from Westeros for many years now, Tysha knew all the major castles, rivers and roads. In Braavos, she pored over maps of her lost homeland during her leisure hours.

"No, no," her guest shook his head. "I'm afraid to say it is even worse, and it doesn't make matters much easier that I volunteered for it myself. The circumstances demanded it, you see. I am going to win Lysa Arryn's hand in marriage, and thus become Lord Protector of the Vale."

Despite the horror of this prospect, an amused smile twisted his thin lips, and a slight twinkle could be noticed in his green-grey eyes. He was a short man of slender build, and nothing about his features was striking at first glance. The mockingbird that usually clasped his cloak was left behind in Westeros, but this sigil was so insignificant that few would have recognized it anyway.

"Lady Lysa Arryn," mused Tysha, slightly raising her eyebrows. "She was a famous beauty in her day. What is she like now?"

Petyr Baelish laughed easily. "Lysa was sweet enough, as all young girls are. Now she is thick of waist and narrow of mind, fears everything and everyone, and trusts no man in the Seven Kingdoms but your humble servant," he made a small bow.

"And I assume you are going to maintain that trust for as long as possible."

"Until the last moment," he confirmed, "which, I hope, will not tarry in presenting itself. I wish I could bypass the role of devoted husband and step into the shoes of a grieving widower straightaway."

"And then what? What does King's Landing expect from the Lord Protector of the Vale?"

"Mainly to maintain the Vale's allegiance with the Iron Throne. But if everything goes according to our plan, it will soon cease to matter what the Lannisters expect. They will all be gone, and the Lord Protector will be a powerful man in his own right, with no strings attached. Then I will be free to follow my heart's desire." The expression of his face became keener, and the color of his eyes was green as the lagoon as they rested upon Tysha's face. "I will make my final journey to Braavos, and bring back my bride, a gentlewoman of the city, a lady of beauty and refinement such as few men in the Seven Kingdoms have ever seen. It is fortunate, truly, that masks are so popular here. As renowned as you are, few Braavosi have caught a glimpse of your uncovered face, and in Westeros no one would know you. Not even Tywin Lannister himself, but he will be long dead by the time you arrive."

"Tyrion recognized me," Tysha pointed out. Littlefinger stepped closer to her and took her by the shoulders.

"One word from you, and he will be dead as well," he said in a tempting voice, but Tysha shook her head.

"Leave him. No harm will come to me from Tyrion now, especially as he has this child wife of his in tow."

Baelish gave a sigh that sounded mocking. "Poor Sansa. From the moment Tywin Lannister made the decision to marry her to Tyrion, it was clear she will come to no good. Now the most she can hope for is to stay alive, and even that chance is growing slimmer by the day."

"Does that bother you?" Tysha asked mildly. Rumours reached her that Petyr once made an offer at court to marry Sansa Stark himself, but she didn't know what to make of that. She never brought it up during his visits to Braavos.

"For her mother's sake, I would have Sansa spared if possible," said Littlefinger. This was another matter she set at rest. Catelyn Tully was Petyr's ghost, just as Tyrion was hers. Only her ghost was alive. But soon he will be gone, and then she can continue pretending that he is no more, she told herself. He is gone. Tysha, too. Once back in Westeros, she will pick a new name for herself.

Petyr must have sensed those comforting thoughts, because his hands slid from her shoulders to her arms and subtly caressed, moving up and down. Then one hand shifted to the back of her neck, resting just under her hair. "Soon, my love, you will be my wife - and my worthy partner in this game of thrones." His lips found hers, and his tongue explored her mouth, tasting it anew after months of absence. "Together, we will rule the Seven Kingdoms," he murmured. "None of us will sit in that ugly iron chair, certainly, but we shall decide which royal ass graces it. We will have it all. All you want and more."

Tysha allowed herself to get lost in his touch. Petyr Baelish might not have looked like a very impressive man, but there was something in his kisses that brought back to life the senses she thought were long dead. Mild and easygoing and courteous, he was dangerous as a sword wrapped in silk, and it was this danger that sent tingles of excitement down her back. _It has to work, all of it. Otherwise, gods, why allow me to rise so high and get so close? Do not send me tumbling down. Crush the Lannisters instead. _


	11. Chapter 11

"You must go," her husband told her, and Sansa looked at him with eyes wide and full of hurt.

"You are sending me away?" she whispered in disbelief. Tyrion looked uncomfortable.

"It is already settled," he said briskly. "A ship will take you to Pentos. You should be safe there, and when I can, I will join you."

"When would that be?" she asked, expecting him to meet his gaze, but as he did not, she went to him and knelt before him and took his hand in hers. "You cannot do this, Tyrion. You... you took me for your wife in the sight of gods and men - and we both know how our marriage began, but now it is _real_."

He looked startled. "Of course it is," he said quickly, and his expression softened as he placed his other hand on top of hers. "You mustn't take it this way, my love. I am only doing it for your safety."

"But this means staying here is dangerous!" Sansa cried. "Why do _you _need to do that, Tyrion? Let us go away, both of us. Let us take this ship to Pentos. What does it matter to us in which of the Free Cities to stay? Or is there something you are hiding from me?"

By the way Tyrion opened his mouth, then closed it, and by how uncomfortable he looked she knew she must have hit the mark. "It is true, is it not?" she demanded. "'_Tell_ me. Is it about," she hesitated, "about Tysha?"

"No," Tyrion hurried to say, then halted. "That is to say, I do not know. I hope not, because otherwise..." he trailed off.

"I do not understand."

"No," he shook his head. "Of course not, as I didn't truly explain, and to be honest I hoped I would not have to, but... Sansa, I found out there is one man in Braavos who by right should be half a world away."

"Who?" Sansa asked, suddenly fearful.

"Littlefinger," her husband said succinctly. No more words were needed. Sansa's hand flew to her mouth.

"But... surely that means Queen Cersei is looking for us here in Braavos, and if we stay it's only a matter of time until he - "

Tyrion was shaking his head again. "I am not so sure," he confessed. "Petyr Baelish is not a man to do the queen's dirty work, and frankly, for a long time now I have been convinced that he is playing a game of his own. No, I am not at all certain his being here has anything to do with us."

"But Tysha," Sansa said, "she warned you..."

"Yes," said Tyrion. "This troubles me. Coupled with Littlefinger's unexpected presence, this bears an ominous message - not only for us, but for Tysha as well. Because if she has any dealings with Littlefinger, she might be dancing on the brink of a chasm without even knowing it."

"So this is what you mean to do," Sansa realized, and her tummy fluttered with fear. "To... to ask her or... rush headlong into it. But you needn't, Tyrion. You ought to leave. _She_ told you so herself."

The expression that passed upon Tyrion's face was pained. "You do not understand," he said gently. "I am in debt to her. Nothing can rectify the mistake I made all those years ago, but if Tysha is in danger, even if it is her own doing, I ought to try and keep her safe."

"Risking your own life?" Sansa protested. "I cannot... cannot accept this," she said, swallowing with difficulty. Her eyes swam with tears. "You are all I have. And even if Mother and Father and my brothers and sister were still alive, you would still be the most important of them all. You are my husband. I _chose_ you for a husband. I would not have you taken away from me, not now."

She put her arms around him, and Tyrion embraced her gratefully, yet even though his words came out muffled by the fabric of her gown, Sansa heard them distinctly. "Your love is wasted on someone like me," he said.

She held him at arm's length and looked at him fiercely. "Do not talk so," she said, tears streaming down her face. "_Ever_. Do you hear me?"

He touched her face gently. "Forgive me, my lady. I have underestimated you, I know. I should have confided my thoughts to you at once. Do I take it that you won't leave for Pentos, then?"

"Not without you," Sansa said, and he looked anxious and grateful at once.

"In that case, precautions must be taken. If, as I am hoping, Littlefinger doesn't know that we are here, he must not find out. Thankfully masks are currently in fashion in Braavos; wear one of them whenever you go out, no one must glimpse your face. I shall do likewise, although of course, my short stature makes me much more conspicuous," Tyrion concluded with a half-laugh. "I would hire guards, but I fear that would only draw attention to us. I swore to keep you safe," he added, kissing her fingers, "and I intend to do so."

Their faces were closer now; their brows touched. Sansa's lips fluttered over his closed eyes, his cheeks, his lips. "If I had to suffer what you suffered," she whispered, "I would surely have grown bitter and cruel."

"I grew bitter," said Tyrion. "Some would say I grew cruel, too. Many call me a monster."

"Perhaps," she said, caressing his face and tasting salt where her tears mingled with his. "But you still have honor, you protect the weak, you are generous and good and kind..."

"I believe you are mistaking me for Baelor the Blessed, Sansa," he told her, and she gave a shaky laugh and kissed him.

"No," she said, "I am certain Baelor the Blessed didn't know half the... the things you showed to me in our bed," she blushed furiously again, and Tyrion laughed in earnest now, for the first time since they met Tysha in Braavos.

"My lady Sansa," he said, tenderly caressing her auburn locks, "I am certain that when my lord father broached the notion of this marriage, he had no idea of the sort of gift he would eventually give me."

Sansa was still kneeling in front of him, and their heads were on the same level. "And me," she whispered, her eyes filling with tears again. "And me."

_A/N: So, here it is, the first entry after a long, looong time. I have been (still am, in fact) busy with my original work, but I decided to slow the pace a bit and allow myself time to sit back, relax a little, and perhaps pick up the thread of this story again. If there are any scenes/plot twists you would like to have included in this story, you can tell me in a review or a PM. _


	12. Chapter 12

_A child, _Tyrion chanted under his breath as he pulled the hood of his faded, ragged cloak further down. _I am nothing but a beggar child under an overlarge cloak, the streets of Braavos are full of such creatures. No one ough to take any notice of me. _

He didn't take his eyes off Littlefinger's back as the latter walked, secure, confident. With an ominous feeling, but with no true surprise, Tyrion saw the direction which he took, and across a canal he watched how Petyr Baelish called at the gate of the manse that held so much of the sorrow in his heart. Baelish was promptly admitted and stayed for so long that Tyrion began to think he must have missed him going, but then Littlefinger appeared at the gate again, accompanied by Tysha herself. They briefly exchanged a few words, and then Baelish bent over Tysha's hand, taking his leave. Tyrion quickly ducked behind a statue of a green-tinged bronze mermaid and began walking away. _I will have to confront her, oh yes, _he told himself grimly, _but not like this. _His clothes reeked of fish, and something worse.

When he presented himself at Tysha's manse once more, her gasp of surprise was a source of grim satisfaction to him. "You," she breathed out. "You are_ still_ here? I know you booked passage on a ship... you and your little wife are supposed to be on your way to Pentos."

"You are well-informed," Tyrion offered her a brief smile, "but then again, so am I. Let us throw pretenses aside, Tysha. I will ask you directly - what did Petyr Baelish, also known as Littlefinger, do here today?"

Her eyes momentarily flashed with dismay, but she composed herself within a moment. "That is no concern of yours," she said coldly.

"That could have been true, if I didn't know the man," contradicted Tyrion. "But as it happens, I do know Littlefinger, and he is seldom up to any good. So, I am asking again: what do you have to do with him?"

The dismay was instantly replaced by anger. "Whatever I wish," snapped Tysha. "And you are not in a place to come and demand me to divulge all my secrets to you, Tyrion."

"You confess there are secrets, then?"

She sighed. "Business," she said. "Petyr called here on purpose of business. You do know he keeps some pleasure houses in King's Landing, yes? They are considered fine establishments, but there is nothing like the courtesans of Braavos. We were discussing a few choice girls in my employ who might consider it worthwhile to sail across the Narrow Sea with Littlefinger and raise the level of his... love sanctuaries."

"Brothels," Tyrion corrected her. "Brothels and whores. And you would have me believe that Littlefinger came all the way here with no purpose but this? When he is supposed to be hastening to the Vale, to woo and wed the lady of the Eyrie?"

Tysha shrugged and made to turn away from him. "Believe what you will," she threw at him across her shoulder. "It is naught to me."

But unexpectedly even for himself, Tyrion held her firmly by the arm. "Tysha," he said through clenched teeth, for even after all this time, it still hurt to say her name. "I do hope and pray, for your sake, that what you tell me is true - for Petyr Baelish is a man who smiles at you and japes with you, and then sends hidden daggers to cut your throat. Never trust him, even and especially if he promised you something."

"Who should I trust, then?" she sneered. "You? You, who had no faith in me? You, who stepped aside and allowed your father to destroy me? You, who continued your life as if nothing ever happened, free and rich and unscathed?"

"Not unscathed, exactly," Tyrion put in, and the expression of her face darkened still, and she wrenched her arm from his grip.

"Do you truly believe your scars are deeper than mine, Tyrion?"

He sighed wearily. "Tell me true," he said. "The danger to my life you talked of, before... did you mean him? Littlefinger?"

She straightened, proud and cold and beautiful and miserable. "I will say not one word more," she told him. "I gave you good advice, sensible advice, and you chose to ignore it. On your head be it, then."

Again, she was about to turn away from him, and again Tyrion stopped her. "Tysha," he said again. "I have one last request to make of you... do not tell Littlefinger that I am still here."

She cast down her eyes, and her eyelashes fluttered. "He will find out anyway, and soon," she said flatly. "If you know him, surely you understand that."

"It will suffice to know that he won't obtain this information from you," Tyrion said. "Can you promise me that?"

"I make no promises," she said flatly.

"I mean you no harm," he told her earnestly. "On the contrary, I only wish to - "

"To protect me?" she cut across him. "Too late, Tyrion. Much too late. You have someone else to protect now, and that is your lady Sansa. You had failed me, but not her. Not yet. If you do, you will be well and truly beyond redemption. There are ships that sail away from here, far across the sea - many ships, every day. If you are wise, you could be boarding one of them even now. Think about it, Tyrion. Think well - and quickly."


	13. Chapter 13

_He will be angry with me, _thought Sansa, _but he will understand. He has been gone for so long, I must go and make sure... _she trailed off, for she did not want to define, even in her own thoughts, what she wanted to make sure of.

She wanted to be certain Tyrion didn't go _there _again. _He has nothing to do with her anymore, _she thought almost desperately.

She walked faster, and did not heed the footsteps behind her. Oblivious in her concern, she did not stop to look around, nor thought she might be followed until she felt the unmistakable cold of steel pressed against the back of her neck.

"Not so fast, sweetling," she heard a voice rasp in her ear.

She was cursing herself for a fool while the sellsword led her to one of the many harbors of Braavos. That he was a sellsword she was convinced - she did not know the man, but he had that unmistakable smell of old leather, sweat, wet wool and cheap wine that put her in mind of Bronn. She tried to speak to him several times, but every time she felt his blade press against her ribs, and fell silent. _Perhaps it is all for the best, _she told herself, panicking. _Perhaps it is a mistake. He hadn't seen my face, he might have taken me for someone else. _Like Tyrion bade her, she put on a mask before venturing out.

Her eyes were hastily bound by a scrap of rough cloth, and so, blind and stumbling, she was half-led, half-pushed up a ladder onto a slightly swaying deck of a ship, then led downstairs again, and by the stuffiness of the air about her she guessed she is in a small cabin.

There was also a finer scent, mint and lemons and something else she could not recognize - and then she heard the gentle clinking of silver, and a voice that made the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. "Thank you, Barr," the voice said, "you may go."

A door was slammed, and the sellsword's rough footsteps died away behind it. Sansa remained rooted to the spot, shivering.

"Lady Sansa," the suave voice said to her, "you may remove your blindfold now. Aye, and your mask. There is no need for pretense between us."

With shaking hands, Sansa took off the cloth that bound her eyes, and the mask that covered her face. The one she beheld in front of her was just who she feared to see - a small, slightly built man with a short pointed beard and grey-green eyes that conveyed the look of amusement. "Lord Baelish," she said in a very small voice. He made her a courteous bow. "What are you doing here?"

"My lady of Stark," said Baelish, "I hope you forgive me for bringing you here in this manner. In time you will be convinced, I am certain, that it was done in your best interests. As a friend, I could not forsake Cat's daughter when her life is in such grave peril."

_You are the peril, _Sansa thought, but aloud she said very coolly, _"_You are quite mistaken, my lord. I was perfectly safe with my lord husband."

Littlefinger had a thin-lipped smile. "If it were so, would you be within easy reach of every commoner on the streets of Braavos? This city is a treacherous place, my lady, and I intend to take you away from here as soon as possible."

"Am I your prisoner?" Sansa asked.

"Prisoner? Why, of course not, my lady. You are merely under my... protection."

"Will you allow me to go and return to my husband, then?"

Littlefinger made an attempt to touch her face, but she recoiled. "Widowhood will become you, Sansa," he said.

She paled. "What... what have you done to Tyrion?"

"Nothing," he shrugged, "not yet, at least. But it is only a matter of time until this wretched dwarf gets himself killed, with this talent of his to make people wroth with him, and I don't mean to allow you to be taken down as well."

"And what do you intend to do with me, my lord?"

"Take you to the Vale," was Petyr's surprising reply.

Sansa was confused. "The... the Vale? What is there for you in the Vale?"

"A bride," Baelish smiled. "I am to wed your aunt, the lady Lysa Arryn."

_Of course, _Sansa thought fleetingly. She knew Littlefinger had been in love with her mother once, but Catelyn Stark was dead - and Lysa Arryn was an astounding match for a boy born heir to the dreary, remote Fingers.

"Tyrion will not let this stand," Sansa told him stubbornly, "he will come for me."

Littlefinger contemplated her benignly. "No doubt you can contrive to send your little lord husband a message, clever girl that you are," he said, "and if Tyrion Lannister sets foot in the Seven Kingdoms again, how long do you think it will take until he is recognized, arrested and executed? Lest you forget, he is the primary suspect in the murder of our good King Joffrey."

"I am a suspect too," Sansa told him. "If you take me back to Westeros..."

Littlefinger gently took her by the chin. "But I will not be bringing Sansa Stark with me, sweetling," he said. "Sansa Stark is gone, and that is all for the best. We will have a brand new identity for you. A new identity, a new home, a new life. I am a friend to you, although I have been a hidden friend until now," she looked disbelieving, so he went on. "_Come to the godswood tonight if you want to go home."_

"The godswood," Sansa gasped, "it was _you_?"

This time, his smile conveyed satisfaction. "None other, Lady Sansa."


	14. Chapter 14

"I will never believe Sansa went with him of her own volition," Tyrion said stubbornly. He no longer cared about making Tysha uneasy, about revealing himself, about the danger, the plots that were to him no more than dim outlines in the darkess. All his being was filled with hot, red rage. He wanted to throttle Littlefinger. He wanted to throttle himself for underestimating the danger; he should have forbidden Sansa to go out alone, under any circumstances.

"You don't know for certain that she went with him," Tysha pointed out, but that sounded so feeble that Tyrion didn't even bother to reply. He looked at her with his mismatched eyes and saw her cringe. _She feels guilty, _he thought. _And probably not without reason. _

_"_Tysha, please," he pressed his advantage. "I need to know. What does he intend to do with Sansa? Does he mean to bring her back to King's Landing, to answer for Joffrey's murder? Or will he use her as a piece in some other game? She is my _wife_, gods damn it. I swore to protect her."

All of a sudden, Tysha's eyes lit up with a dark fire. _She is as angry as I am. _"I was your wife too. You had sworn to protect me. Or have you forgotten?"

He could have lost himself once more in the overwhelming grief and guilt, but he refused to do so. It was not the moment. He needed to act. But before, he needed to think. "The brothels," he said quietly, "and the Braavosi courtesans... it is but a veil, isn't that so? You have other business with Littlefinger, Tysha. Try to deny it."

"Why should I?" she threw at him. "I am not afraid of you. Yes, there are other plans. And Littlefinger is not the only man in King's Landing with whom I have been in touch. Did you once stop to think that perhaps, the Lannisters are no more than flies caught in the Spider's web?."

"The Spider? Varys?" Tyrion blinked in confusion. "What does he have to do with you, with - "

"With the Lannisters? He had to serve your family to keep his skin intact, yet do not forget he counseled the Mad King to close the city gates before your father. Varys had ever been loyal to the Targaryens; he has little love for the Lannisters. As for me, I had given a solemn oath that the Lannisters would be destroyed. All of them. Your sister, your brother and your father. Yes, Lord Tywin Lannister most of all."

"Varys is a sensible man," Tyrion said. "He knows that the Targaryens are no more." Tysha smiled thinly, and he recalled rumours... rumours of the last Targaryens, the Beggar King and the girl who was referred to as the Mother of Dragons... but were they ever more than tales? He could not know, and at the moment he could not care less. A realization dawned on him, though, and - foolishly, perhaps - he did not stop himself from voicing it.

"Joffrey," he gasped, "it was_ you_?"

"I was merely part of it," she shrugged modestly.

"But Sansa was not," Tyrion said hotly. "Someone tried to make her part of it, though. Was it your idea to put the poisoned stone in her hair net?"

Tysha looked aghast. "I did not know of it," she said quietly. A troubled crease appeared between her brows.

"Listen to me, Tysha. My honorable father and my sweet brother and sister can rot in the darkest of the seven hells as far as I am concerned, but I need to reach Sansa."

"Too late," Tysha said, "Petyr's ship will be far at sea by now."

He clenched his fists. "What is his ship's name?"

She shook her head. "It is futile. The ship is swift, and if you dare to follow Petyr back to the Seven Kingdoms, it will likely mean your life."

"The _name_," he repeated through gritted teeth. "The bloody name, Tysha."

She sighed, as if out of deep weariness. "_The Skylark_," she said.


End file.
